Seeing Red
by Sneebs
Summary: Building a giant robot costs a fortune, and Tord finds himself in a bind as bankruptcy and Paul's sudden disappearance proves problematic. Takes place before The End Part 1 / alternate ending
1. Chapter 1

"I don't get my money, you don't get my respect, ya hear?"

Tord released an exasperated sigh. Attempting to land a punch on Shostler, who stood about a head taller than him, had landed him in an unsavory position. Being shoved unceremoniously against the rough wooden floorboards with a steel-toed boot digging into his spine was not something he had planned or prepared for when he decided to visit the shop.

In hindsight, he probably should have seen this coming. Shostler was an engineer who was very peculiar about his payment, and Tord had known he would eventually find out about Tord's situation. When bankruptcy was involved, word tended to get out fast among workers. Because while many who worked for Red Army were freelancers who agreed to help here and there, there was a large amount of soldiers who dedicated their whole life to the army and therefore depended on Tord for their paycheck. Which meant a not-so-fun time for Tord if he ever found himself unable to pay his soldiers.

"I told you," Tord spoke into the floorboards, rolling his eyes. "I will get you your money, all in good time." He cringed as the other man pressed his boot harder.

"'All in good time' wasn't part of the deal, norski."

Tord thought frantically. "Um, but did we ever clarify that it was not…part of the deal?"

The other man blinked.

The Norwegian sighed. "Look, Shostler. You are one of my most invaluable assets. I would never cheat you out of a paycheck."

"Uh-huh," Shostler said, unconvinced. "Really? Well, just the other day another one of your most _'invaluable assets'_ was griping to me about budget cuts and drops in salar-"

"Griping? _Who_?" Tord asked, his interest piqued.

"Don't remember a name. I do remember, though, he seemed to enjoy chewing his cigarette. Grossest thing, ya know? How does he stand the-"

"Paul." Tord ground his teeth.

"Yeah, that was it." Shostler scratched his head. "Ran into him just at the local bar the other night. He was wasted, poor guy. Must'a recognized my face from a previous mission, 'cause he started complaining to me as soon as I took a seat behind 'im at the counter. Said you demoted him and cut his salary."

Tord frowned inwardly. He hadn't been aware Paul had taken the demotion so personally. It was only a temporary punishment for crashing the plane he'd been captaining – Tord was going to eventually give him his usual rank back. Punishment had been, regretfully in this particular case, necessary. If the other soldiers had witnessed Tord allowing Paul to get by doing such a thing without some kind of repercussions, what would they think of Tord? That he was some kind of feeble invertebrate that could be taken advantage of? No, Paul's demotion had been the only way to go.

Besides, Tord had thought Paul would get a laugh out of his new position as the mess hall's sanitation manager.

With a sinking feeling, Tord realized he would have to give the ex-captain a talk. However much he favored the cigarette-smoking man, Tord couldn't just let him go around spilling beans to anybody with a familiar face. Then, Tord froze. What had Paul been doing this far east a few nights ago? Sanitation managers weren't permitted to go on missions, or even leave the base without scheduled leave for that matter.

"Did he happen to tell you what he is doing in town?" Tord asked, as casually as though over tea, despite having his face shoved against the wooded floor still.

Shostler gave a hearty laugh. "Like I even had time to ask questions! Your little soldier was drunk off his hinges and mumbling nearly incoherently. You should'a heard him."

"Did he mention any names?"

"Sure." The engineer grinned, taking his foot off Tord's back and crossing his arms. "Said your name plenty of times. And some fella, 'Pat'." He waved his hand dismissively. "Now get outta here. But if you still don't have my money next time I see your face…"

Tord scrambled to get back on his feet. He straightened up and brushed his sleeves with his fingers, his cheeks red. Tord didn't need to hear the remainder of Shostler's threat to know the engineer meant business. He nodded to the man stiffly and moved to the door.

"Do not worry," Tord assured the man with as much confidence as he could muster. "I will be back soon, and I will have your payment." He shut the door behind him on the way out and chose not to linger longer than necessary. Picking his way through the rapidly growing blanket of snow, he rushed back to the snowmobile and threw himself down onto the passenger seat. Fat flakes burnt cold as they wetted his face. He blinked to clear them from his eyes and hurried to tug his cap up over his hair.

Patryk watched him from the driver's seat, one hand hovering over the stick shift. "Where to, boss?"

"Closest base," Tord answered after a moment of thought. "Be prepared to fly the helicopter when we arrive, Patryk. We are returning to headquarters."

With one last curious glance at Tord, Patryk turned to the mobile's controls and started the engine. The vehicle roared to life, its headlights flooding the dim terrain ahead. The snow glimmered.

With a press of the pedal, they were off. The snowmobile kicked into drive and, spraying up a shower of snow behind it, pressed over the frozen ground. It shot out from under the convenient overhang provided by the disconnected garage and into the open, where there was no haven from the storm's full might but for the coniferous canopy above.

As it was, the canopy was sparse – a thin patchwork of needles that provided very little shelter from the snow and that would occasionally spill large sheets of ice and snow onto the path before the snowmobile. Tord turned his head and peeked at the driver, who seemed to be concentrating very hard; Patryk frowned and bit his lip as he steered the vehicle, most likely trying to make sure it wouldn't tip as he plowed over uneven, fresh snow. He was squinting, as the snow had only begun to press harder against them since their departure of Shostler's shop – a sign, along with the grey clouds overhead, that the storm was worsening.

Eventually they came upon a rotting shed of a house that seemed to jump out from behind the trees as Patryk took a gradual turn off the sinuous, paved path. The few shingles remaining on its roof were an ashen blue-grey and the paneling on its sides looked as though they'd all been replaced at different times, leaving a mismatched mess of muted whites and peeling paint. There was a small wooden porch that creaked and whined as Tord and Patryk mounted its sinking steps and approached the door, which was adorned with an assortment of heavy-duty locks.

Patryk grabbed the white tarp that rested next to the doormat and hurried off toward the snowmobile to camouflage it from any curious eyes that might come this way off the road. Meanwhile, Tord knocked on the door and waited for a response.

There was a shuffling from the other side of the door. Then with an indignant groan, the door was pulled ajar a few centimeters. It was darker inside, and Tord had to blink to see the soldier who peeked his head in the gap. "Ah, Red Leader!" the soldier said cheerily, and the door swung wide open.

"Thank you…" Tord squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dim room. He stepped in and looked at the soldier's nametag. "Isaac."

The soldier gave him a funny look. "Who's Isaac?"

Tord frowned and pointed at the nametag. The soldier giggled.

"Oh that," he said, shrugging. "I'm borrowing this uniform."

Tord chose not to pry into the matter further and remained silent. Eventually his company was paged and had to leave the room, to which Tord released a small relieved sigh. He sat, sinking into a nearby musty sofa, and waited until there was another knock on the door.

"The weather's looking pretty bad," Patryk said as soon as he stepped in through the door, shedding snow onto the floor and leaving wet footprints. "If I could offer a suggestion, boss?"

"You are going to suggest waiting out the storm?" When Patryk nodded, Tord sighed. "Eh," he said, waving a hand dismissively, "you are always worrying, Patryk. We will be _fine_."

Patryk frowned, looking slightly annoyed. "But you remember what happened last time, when Paul was flying! It was storming then, too."

Tord perked up at the mention of the other soldier. "Speaking of Paul…" he began. "Have you seen him lately?"

Patryk lowered his gaze to the ground and shook his head. "He keeps avoiding me. Ever since the crash."

"You do not know of his whereabouts, then?"

The soldier shook his head. "Huh?"

Tord silently reset the locks on the door and turned towards the entrance to the basement, all the while with Patryk watching him, the look of worry on the soldier's face intensifying by the second. Before Tord could step away, Patryk caught him by the arm.

"What happened to Paul?" he cried, his voice small.

There was a brief silence as Tord sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That is what I am trying to find out." Patryk's grip on his arm loosened and Tord resumed his walk to the basement entrance. He looked back at the other man before entering.

"Look," he said, "the sooner we get to headquarters the sooner we can start a search for him."

That certainly broke Patryk's trance. The soldier's expression hardened. He pushed past Tord and proceeded into the basement. "Then let's fly a helicopter."

Tord cast a weary glance at the puddle from the snow Patryk had tracked in before following the soldier down the stairs. The house creaked as the wind outside howled and pressed against it, making the very walls shiver. No, it was not safe conditions to fly. And yes, they were about to depart in a giant flying metal trap.

 _This is going to be fun,_ Tord thought as they entered the underground hangar.


	2. Chapter 2

Every vehicle that was property of the red army was purchased second-hand and patched up into working order. Many parts used in this recycling process were scavenged from scrapyards or stolen from unsuspecting pack rats' backyards. This meant that none of the organization's aircraft or cars had that shiny, polished appearance many people adored, but instead looked more like something Frankenstein would have put together, if he had pursued engineering instead of medicine.

Tord and Patryk approached the only vehicle present in the small hangar, the latter in the lead. Tord looked upon the helicopter with disdain, growing anxious about the situation. If he had been nervous before about flying into a winter storm, the sight of the aircraft only made his anxiety worsen. It looked like a late Picasso painting, resting there in the center of the floor with mismatched landing skids, parts bolted onto places they didn't seem to fit, and a fissure in the tinted windshield. On its tail someone with either little talent for art or very little regard for the army's representation had sloppily painted the army's emblem in a bold red acrylic. The copter's rotor blades drooped, making the vehicle appear melancholy and forgotten.

Patryk was extraordinarily eager to get it into the air, and started the engine before Tord had even taken a seat. Tord dug his fingers into the torn cushion of the co-pilot chair and ground his teeth. He threw the soldier a pointed look.

"Calm down," he ordered. "And do _not_ fly us into the ceiling, or you'll be demoted."

"What, like Paul?" Patryk replied, flipping switches and adjusting levers.

"Worse than Paul."

Patryk snorted. "What could be worse than being dropped to the rank of janitor?"

Tord became aloof. "He's not a janitor, he's the mess hall's sanitation manager," he said, pouting.

Patryk adjusted his seat and glanced over the controls. "Janitor," he said pointedly. Tord released an exasperated sigh, but sat back and fell into a brooding silence as Patryk informed ground control via intercom that they were ready for departure.

"Roger that," the response crackled in acknowledgement through the control panel's battered speakers. A few seconds later there was a shifting groan from above. The walls seemed to sigh and shudder as the ceiling split open, sliding apart to reveal the grey clouds Tord and Patryk had driven the snowmobile under not too long ago.

"Up we go," Patryk murmured, easing the helicopter into a hover, then navigating it carefully out of the hangar. It was a delicate job, but with a sharp eye and concentration he managed to get the aircraft above the trees without dealing any damage. Tord peeked out through the window just in time to watch the ceiling of the hangar shift back into place, making it appear as though there had never been a hangar at all.

Indeed, the secluded and rotted house was a prime location for a private base. No one would ever suspect the operations run through it, or the soldiers who worked in its basement. It was the perfect disguise, unlike the warehouse that doubled as headquarters, which had been designated HQ due to its convenience in location and the sorely needed sale that had allowed Tord to purchase the building at a discount of nearly half off its original price. The warehouse was a looming, red-bricked edifice that had so many soldiers constantly walking in and out of it that only a fool wouldn't notice it was property of an army. _Which_ army, though, was the question.

It took roughly two hours to reach the destination. When they arrived, Patryk set the helicopter onto an available landing pad, informed HQ ground control of their arrival, and jumped out through the cabin door. He rushed to catch up to Tord, who had already gotten out and was now making his way across the roof of the warehouse towards the stairs down.

"So, what's the plan, boss?" Patryk said as he caught up and fell in stride with the shorter of the two. His face was set, a stone mask of determination. He appeared ready to jump directly back into the helicopter and ride back out into the storm with one word.

Tord sighed. "Nothing, at the moment. Get some rest, soldier, it is late."

Patryk came to an abrupt halt, as though someone had slammed on the emergency break in his head. He stood silently for a second, glancing back and forth between Tord and the copter. "I…no. You said…"

"Look, Patryk," Tord said, stopping and swiveling on his heels. "We _will_ find him, eventually. But depriving yourself of sleep will not help. Go get rest."

"With all respect, sir," Patryk argued. "I have a right to at least ask questions."

"Huh?"

A fine line appeared between the soldier's eyebrows. "You've barely spoken since you walked out of Shostler's workshop. I just want you to talk. I need _answers,_ Tord."

Tord gave the soldier an appraising look. "Then give me questions."

"Okay," Patryk began quickly, as though he'd been rehearsing what he'd ask in his head the entire flight to headquarters. "How long have you known he's been missing?"

Tord looked hurt. "It is new news to me, too, buddy. I would not hold information like this from you. Besides, I thought you had already known. After all, you two love birds are always together."

Patryk's cheeks flushed. He set his jaw and plowed on. "How did you find out?"

"Shostler. He told me he had spotted a soldier in a bar. It happened to be Paul."

"Wait," Patryk said, growing angry. "If Shostler saw him, that means he was in Parkano. We just spent the last two hours flying _away_ from him."

"Paul's my friend, too-"

"Then why did you order me to put us farther from him?"

"Let me explain!"

Patryk was silent.

"Paul's my friend, too," Tord said slowly, picking back up from before he was interrupted. He paused to give Patryk his most sincere look. "And I'm going to do all I can to find him…but hear me out. Protocol is very important. Without it, there would be chaos, and chaos needs to be avoided. For that reason, I must treat Paul's case as I would any other soldier's."

Patryk blanched. "What? You're going to treat him like a _defector_?"

"You do not understand. When a soldier goes off the radar without warning, it can be a very dangerous thing. Shostler said Paul was spilling classified army information, too."

"So what? He was upset! The man doesn't know how to cope with demotion. He's not a criminal!" Patryk cried, throwing his hands in the air.

"Of course he is not a criminal-"

"Then stop talking about him like that!" Patryk's face had grown hot. "Everything you have said has suggested he's some kind of culprit. Of what, though? What could he even defect about? The army's debt? Everyone knows about that already!"

Tord sighed again. "That is enough, soldier."

"No, I won't stand for th-"

"I said **_enough_** **.** " Patryk fell silent, and watched Tord with a sudden blank expression, which frankly, Tord didn't like any better than his anger. It was a strange look on the soldier's usually very animated face, and it chilled Tord to the bone. Patryk only wore that expression when he was planning something. "Now you might as well go to your quarters and sleep," Tord said coldly, "because we will not be leaving until we have had a debriefing and a mission planned for the search. A party will need to be put together, people who can be trusted. Until then, you are to remain with your feet on HQ ground, is that clear?"

Patryk stared at Tord. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Am I dismissed, _Red Leader_?" he said, sharply enunciating each syllable, his breath coming out in puffs in the chilled air. He only addressed Tord in that manner in face-to-face conversation when he was furious.

Tord sniffed. "You are dismissed."

Patryk stormed past towards the stairwell door, knocking into Tord as he went by – giving him a literal cold shoulder. Tord regained his footing and ground his teeth, as he had multiple times already that day. But otherwise, he didn't react to the soldier's unruly behavior as Patryk slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Tord by himself on the roof of the warehouse.

It just had not been a good day for Tord. He had already had bankruptcy weighing down on his mood. Just the last three hours, however, had proved that the size of Tord's collective problems was much bigger than he had originally thought.

A chilling gale kicked up, pushing Tord's bangs into his eyes. He blinked and looked up at the sky. It was overcast and a scatter of flurries blew nearly horizontally, bullied by the wind. The storm had been left behind when they'd flown out of Finland, and a handful of stars could be seen, their shimmer fighting feebly through the clouds. The storm wasn't far behind, though – the insistent press of the wind against his numb fingers and wind-bitten cheeks made him sure of that, and even as Tord watched, some of the few visible stars were suffocated by dark, rolling storm clouds.

The roof's floodlights flickered on, casting a dull glow across him. Tord shook his head, breaking from his stupor, and looked around him anxiously. These days, he always felt as though he was being watched. But the only company he could see was his own grey shadow, which stretched across the roof. Looking at the shadow made Tord uneasy; the light from the floodlights was too weak to make a complete shadow, so the outline was incomplete. His shadow faded out, making it so it was missing its head and one of its arms.

Tord shivered. He reassured himself that it was just the cold making him feel jittery, not nerves. He had always had a relatively calm head when it came to strategy, and he couldn't afford to lose it now. He just needed to think. To form a strategy of some sort…

Tord had always thought best when he felt most in control, which seemed to be at the shooting range. With a gun in his hand, he felt safe. With earmuffs on and gunshots ringing through his ears, strangely, everything seemed quieter. At least, there were no voices telling him what to do or soldiers coming to him nagging him for a pay raise. Very few people dared to bother Tord when he was shooting.

He cast one more wary glance about him before shoving his hands into his coat pockets and rushing for the stairwell door.

He direly hoped his shadow wasn't following him.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Chapter 3 should be coming soon, and along with it, a special guest!**

 **Reviews are always appreciated. If you have a tumblr, you can reach me through my blog, redsweatercommie.**


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